


My Heart is For Your Throne

by orphan_account



Series: Howl at Hallowed Ground [8]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angry!sex, Darling Pan - Freeform, F/M, Henry in neverland, Porn With Plot, Smut, neverland's shadow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1409560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are Neverland?"</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>"And what's that?" she asked imperiously, lifting her chin. She didn't have time for riddles.</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart is For Your Throne

**Author's Note:**

> I know, this is really late. I am so. sorry. I am a piece of shit.

Peter doesn't keep her in the cage  _all_ the time.

He lets her out a few times every day, to relieve herself, to eat, to stretch her aching limbs. For this, she thanks whatever deity exists in heaven, because she knows that without those minutes spent sinking her bare toes in Neverland's soil, she'd go utterly mad.

Wendy hasn't got much left in the way of power, not anymore. Hook is off with Tink and the beans – retrieving the dagger, she hopes, but now that he has his lover back she's not so sure – and she is no longer able to roam free. One of the few footholds she has is her sanity, and if she were to lose  _that…_ there'd be nothing.

Hook's abandonment has left its mark. As much as she'd like to, she cannot quite bring herself to dismiss it as unimportant – it's a slight upon her right to rule as much as it is a slight upon her heart. If the red cracks running through her heart had been a mere disruption in the black before, they have widened now, a gaping hole in her chest.

Hurt. Loss. Things she doesn't want to feel, and if she  _must,_ then only briefly before using her pain as mortar for the bricks to build her walls. She doesn't want to miss him. Perhaps it isn't the fierce, animalistic longing she felt throbbing through her at the very thought of Peter – but it is still  _there,_ and it's not so much ferocity as it is sentiment.

She has marked the rise and fall of the sun on the bars of her cage, and she supposes that it has been around a year since she first awoke in her prison. Peter, of course, is never far. He treats her like some kind of ornament, now, instead of the Queen she deserves to be, the  _wolf._ He sits in the clearing and watches her pale legs dangle through the narrow slats of bamboo, listens to her talk aloud to him, at him.

For the first several weeks, Wendy scorned him with all the pride she could muster. She ignored him completely, refused to take the food he offered, turned her head away when he pleaded with her. He attended to her himself – Rufio, Tootles and the others were not allowed to speak to her. No matter how much she called out for them, her pleas were met only with silence.

This is infuriating. Even though she knows –  _knows,_ that above all the boys are loyal to Peter,  _knows_ that his wrath is something to be feared. If they defy him, there will be hell to pay, and none of them are willing to do so.

Yet. She cannot help but resent them for condemning her to silence without so much as a flicker of rebellion. She cannot help but feel  _betrayed,_ somehow – especially by Tootles. Hasn't she been kind to the boy? Kinder than Peter? Hasn't she, for years upon years, nurtured him in the only way she could? She's spent the majority of her life with him by her side, laughing and climbing and scuffling – yet, when she needed him most, her friend (ally, she'd thought) fell short.

When the throne is hers, he – and all the other boys – will not go unpunished. She used to think that survival was not something she could bring herself to blame the others for, but now that she's a Queen and wolf blood flows through her veins, now that she has spent a year languishing in a cage with only Peter for human contact, her sympathy for those savage children has lessened somewhat.

It was this lack of compassion that made her stop eating; a quiet rebellion. Pitiful, really. Her limbs grew thin, and weak, lacking in the muscle she'd once used so fluidly. She was only sustained by Neverland's magic, by using the sharp of her teeth to cut her fingers, and the last bit of strength in her hand to squeeze a drop of blood to the island's soil.

One night, though, crippled with hunger pangs not even otherworldly force could keep at bay, she had opened her eyes against the repugnant blackness, wide and frantic but  _never_ scared. She looked past the bars of her cage, clutching at them with fingers kept close to her chest because she was so cold. Her head ached,  _ached_  with the unfathomable dark and her empty stomach, but still she looked. Neverland looked back, and she saw truth in its eyes.

With a startled gasp, she realised that it wasn't for lack of sun that the night was so dark, but the shadows that cloaked her small clearing.

If she stared straight up, a small slit of starry sky could be seen, bracketed by four towering walls of void.

Hands gripped her cage. They were made of pure blackness, and any light leant to her by the stretch of constellation above seemed to slink into the swirling dark.

_You gave me blood._

The voice was unrecognisable as male or female, deep or light, strong or weak. It simply  _was_ , existing within her head and echoing all around the forest, reverberating both from her cage and her skull. She swallowed, gasping, her eyes fixed on the velvety fingers that curled round the bamboo bars. "Yes." she said, raising her stare to his – hers –  _it's._ Let it not be said that Wendy Moira Angela Darling was easily cowed by the thing that had taken her to Neverland in the first place.

_If you do not take what is given, there will be none left to give, and your time will not come._

It took her only moments to realise what the being meant – and what it was. She now saw that the shadow wasn't Caelan at all – the form was different, even more elfin, with slender limbs and a shape that seemed less human.

"You are Neverland?"

_I am what it should be._

"And what's that?" she asked imperiously, lifting her chin. She didn't have time for riddles.

_Under your rule, Wendy Darling._

She exhaled, watched the glowing white eyes – like holes of light in the darkness – pulsate with energy. With something that wasn't  _goodness,_ she knew that much, but it wasn't the awful red stare of Peter's shadow, either. It's words –  _under your rule –_ were spoken without emotion, without judgement, but the realisation that they were simply  _fact_ made her heart thunder in her chest and her heart swell with pride. It was a beautiful, intoxicating sensation; to know that she was being called to her duty, raised up by the spirit of the island itself and given the right to command it. She sucked in a breath, narrowed her gaze.

"Why are you here?" she demanded.

_Queens need their strength for what is to come._

"Tell me what to do."

_You give the orders, Wendy Darling. You shall know what to do. Summon me at the sunrise, the birth of your reign._

With that, Neverland's shadow vanished, taking with it the chill. What was left could only be described as  _purpose._  She rolled to her back, staring at the sky through the slats of her cage. She calmed her breathing, wet her lips.  _What is to come?_ she thought.

Her stomach rumbled. She would eat in the morning, she told herself. She would eat, and prepare for whatever war she needed to win. She couldn't be a Queen with barely enough strength in her bones to sit upright. She couldn't be a wolf with her lips closed in a huff. Something  _bigger_ than her own struggle for power was beginning, she knew. She could feel it now, stirring in the soil. Shifting beneath her.

So, she swallowed her pride as well as the regained her energy, bit by bit, and soon enough she'd convinced Peter to take her on walks. She hadn't even had to kiss him, force the loosening of her bonds with lips and teeth and tongue.

They don't talk about Hook. They don't talk about Tink. Even conjuring the memory of their faces rips new wounds in her old heart, and Peter seems to sense this. Just idle chat, pointed insults, riddles and japes. Mostly, it's exactly how it was before their game. She never lets him touch her, not anymore. Not like  _that_. But, how he's  _tried._

He wants to try now; she can tell. He's been tense since that first time he came to her in search of her touch, and she refused him. He's even worse, now.

Wendy had been crying again, when it happened. She tried not to – really, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until the stinging stopped – but sometimes, stray tears slipped down her cheeks and to her lips, and they always tasted like shame. She'd been wiping them away furiously when her cage began to lower. It was always a jerky descent, so she grasped the bars with wet fingers that whitened at the knuckles until she landed, with a resounding thud, to the ground.

As always, Peter smirked down at her as he unlatched the door. She could tell what he wanted almost immediately; his eyes were bright, shining with some sort of keen malevolence, his muscles twitching underneath the material of his shirt.

"Bird," he'd said, as way of greeting, reaching out to take her hand.

She'd kicked it away, snarled at him, but he'd caught her ankle and pulled her out.

Fingernails, dirty and ragged, raked over his cheek but – of course – that didn't deter him. He dropped to his knees and kissed her, ran hot tongue over the seam of her lips, cupped her cheeks in his palms when she refused to yield. He growled, shifted forward to press himself to her closer.

He tried every trick, every sensitivity her body held for him. He kissed her harshly, lips closed to mimick hers, again and again. He brushed his mouth over her neck, tugged at her hair, whispered  _Darling please, Wendy-bird let me,_ into her ear, traced it onto her flesh with greedy fingers.

She held herself like stone. She endured his kisses, felt no gratitude when he wiped the last of her tears with his thumbs, made herself stiff and unrelenting.

"No."

He broke away from her, hissing back as if he'd been burned. She hoped he had been. She hoped her skin was scalding to him. She hoped it burnt his flesh black and  _charred._ "What?" he whispered, and his eyes were age-old fury.

"I don't want you."

Peter's rage had almost ripped the island apart, that night. She'd heard his screams above the howling wind, his anguish, and however much she wanted to there was no smile to be brought to her lips from it.

Perhaps that time was no more.

Wendy hugs her tattered nightgown around herself, pressing her fingers to bony hips and staring out to sea. The sun is only just beginning to peek over the horizon, signalling the end of a long night. The velvety blackness of the sky has lasted for more than usual, but from experience, she knows that today will be the brightest she's seen in a while. It's been too long since she's seen sunrise; she's missed it. The light touching the tall mountains of Neverland, the treetops, is long overdue. Chilly water laps at her toes, and she curls them to feel the grainy sand beneath her feet.

"Pretty, you think?" Peter asks.

She doesn't turn to face him. "Yes." She replies, simply.

This is his idea of a gift, allowing her to watch the sun make its way from the sea to the sky. Wendy sniffs. She used to climb to the tallest branches of the tallest trees with Tootles every time it rose, just to feel it warm the earth. Now it's a  _treat._

The scratch of his boot heel against the rock he's perched on tells her of his impatience. She hears him sigh, hears the slide of his clothes against skin and for moment – a jolting second – she thinks he's removing them.

But then he appears on the edge of her vision, and she realises he was simply going to stand with her.

Peter takes her hand in his – this is something Wendy  _has_ to endure, because apparently she'll run away if he doesn't hold on to her – and interlaces their fingers. She's expecting him to tell her  _now back to your cage,_ his customary way of saying goodnight, but he makes no move to leave.

Instead, he sweeps his thumb over the back of her hand, turning his head to look at her. "We can stay longer."

She raises an eyebrow at his smile. Peter rarely offers kindness that comes with no price attached. "What do you want in return?" she queries, although she knows perfectly well.

He draws closer, pressing his shoulder to hers. Familiar warmth radiates from him, leeching to her cool skin. Odd for a being so cold and cruel to have blood that runs so hot. "A kiss," he says, softly, "that's all."

"No."

He growls through his teeth, a frustrated sound that bursts deep in his throat. " _Why,_ Wendy?" he demands. "Just – why  _not_?"

"You  _know_ why," she seethes, wrenching her hand from his, "don't play innocent, Peter. It doesn't suit you."

He glares at her, pressing his lips to a thin line. He darts a glance down, to his feet. Thick eyelashes cast shadows against his cheeks, highlighting the paleness of his skin. His cheekbones stick out, sharp and jutting. He's been biting his lower lip again; she can tell. The red of his mouth is chapped, indented with memory of his teeth. When his gaze returns to her, underneath a furrowed brow, she is struck with how much she misses that mouth. It's been a long time since she surrendered to its allure – and she can barely remember his taste, his bite.

"You're so cold." He tells her, accusingly, and she tips her head back to utter a high, cruel laugh.

"Cold?" Wendy scorns, when the last peals have faded into the brightening sky. " _I'm_ cold?  _You_ were the one who put me in a cage."

_You were the one who brutalised Tink._

You  _are cold, and cruel, and I love you. I love you, and I hate you for making me._

Peter bites his tongue. She hopes it hurts. "I –" he pauses, sighs. "Fine. You're angry, I know. You don't want me."

"No."  _Yes._

He sighs again, and this time she  _knows_ he's up to something. He only ever gives up this easily when he's eager to move to the next stage in whatever scheme he's concocted – or, of course, when his own pleasure is involved. He looks slightly injured at her admission, but the way he doesn't immediately cover it up with anger is quite telling.

Really, he's too easy to read.

"We'll stay here, at least for a while. No kisses needed."

Wendy shrugs, turning back to face the sea. "Alright," she says, nonchalant, even though her heart thrums fiercely for the chance to be free – even if it is only a little while.

A few minutes pass by in silence, nought to be heard but the gentle lapping of water on a beach and soft breathing, but it doesn't last long.

"I'm taking a swim." Peter tells her, and when she glances at him unconsciously, his hands are already at his belt.

He slides his clothes from his form with a kind of slow reverence he never showed her, his eyes waiting for a response. Elegant, bony fingers slide each button from its hole smoothly, forming a path of pale skin. The contrast between this and the dark green of his attire, the graceful arc of his throat, is all too familiar.

Despite the fact it's been a year, Wendy remembers every encounter they've shared – at least of  _this_ nature – with upmost clarity. She's lived for so long now that twelve months seems a mere dewdrop compared to the storm of her own existence. A year, in hindsight, is nothing. It's an agonising dichotomy; her immortality stretches out before her, the weight of time spent settling on slim shoulders, yet a year that in comparison to her long life seems so short  _feels_ so very long. She's both old and young at the same time, and they both exist within her, twisting and turning, red paint splashed across white canvas. Innocence and savagery.

His shirt falls to the sand along with his belt. His trousers, uncinched, hang loosely around his hips. He stands erect, head tilted playfully at her. The morning light is flattering to him, of course, as are most lights; he truly is beautiful, what with his cunning eyes, rakish smile and angular features.

She swallows, heart thundering in her chest, that hot ache burning at the apex of her thighs. Her eyes drop to where his hipbones – sharp enough to cut glass – jut out above the hem of his pants. Between them, the hard flat of his muscular abdomen ripples beneath skin that is unmarked.

_Of course it is,_ Wendy thinks,  _I haven't touched him in a year._  Still, the knowledge that he hasn't gone to Tiger Lily, or perhaps even one of the friendlier mermaids, to sate his needs sends the air from her lungs. Another display of his faith to her, along with the flower-necklaces he's made her in rare shows of tenderness – never crowns, of course not – or the books he's allowed her to read to him. The time he's given to her, the afternoons spent holding her hand. All attempts to win her heart.

It won't work. Her heart is for his throne.

(liar, liar,  _liar_ )

Peter gives a crooked grin, watching her appraise his form. "Care to help?" he asks.

A challenge is present in his tone. Wendy steps forward, hooks her thumbs in the belt loops of his trousers, and yanks them down without ceremony. Her fingers don't brush his skin, nor do they linger. She steps back immediately, averting her eyes when he steps from the pile of clothes, completely naked aside from the leather cuffs on his wrists.

He wades into the water just as the sun breaks over the horizon. It casts golden rays to illuminate the broad lines of his shoulders, the way his hips narrow, the muscle playing across his back.

She wets her mouth, sucking in a heavy breath and watches as he ducks beneath the gentle waves for a moment before resurfacing – sopping wet, a glistening pinnacle of ethereal in the morning glow. He turns to face her, running his fingers through the hair plastered to his skull, a smug, silly grin on his lips.

Wendy lowers herself to the ground, sitting cross-legged on the sand. She pays no mind the fact that it will only dirty her nightgown further. She watches, raising an eyebrow in an unimpressed manner, as Peter makes a show of rubbing the mud and leaves from his skin.

Through the clear, crisp water, she can see everything – from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.

Seduction. That used to be her forte, back when she was free and he just a boy ruled by his own lust. She misses it, sometimes. Days spent battling for dominance, only blood and dirt on her skin instead of tears. She's reduced to a prisoner, now, wings clipped and claws dulled.

She blinks away the sting of moisture at her eyes.  _No,_ she tells herself,  _you are the rightful Queen of Neverland. The wolf on the rocks. The Lost Girl. The Mother of the Forest._

_Wendy Moira Angela Darling._

The shadow has made its wishes clear;  _she_ is what Neverland needs. Every day she has spilled her blood to its floor, watching as the dirt shifts to swallow it. Blood is warmth, and life – the symbolism is weighty, and not lost on the island. Each day, she gives a small token of her existence to Neverland, a small sacrifice of her own self. It will not go unrewarded.

"Bird?" Peter calls, and when she fixes her eyes on him she sees that he is reclining in the water, floating on his back. "You can come in, if you like."

The emphasis he puts on  _if you like_ is obvious. From past experience, Wendy knows that if she refuses to go in it shall be the last chance she gets to bathe in a  _very_ long while. And, even though she has spent nearly a century getting used to the smell of her own filth, it doesn't mean she particularly  _likes_ being this scruffy.

It might also be possible she's missed the hungry look on his face when she's naked in front of him.

"I do need a bath." she replies, standing.

He stops paddling, moving to float so that he's leaning forward just slightly. He watches her undo the ties of her nightgown, dropping it to pool around her ankles, with darkened eyes and a mouth red from biting. She toes off her boots, slides her knickers down her thighs.

When she stands, stock-still, looking right back at him with a haughty kind of stare, he makes a low whine in the back of his throat.

"Wendy," he pleads, "Wendy, come here."

She treads towards him softly, stopping just out of his reach. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving – clearly, he's longed for her much more than she'd thought. She looms over him, the water lapping at her waist, her fingers skimming the ocean's surface. He makes half-sounds, whimpering, desperate things that don't quite reach his lips.

Wendy moves backwards, turning away from him. She dives beneath the waves, cutting smoothly through the water with each stroke, and resurfaces metres away. She rakes her fingers through her hair, unknotting the tangles, sluicing through the dirt and mud that cakes her skin. The cloud of muck that rises from her flesh and into the ocean is almost embarrassing, but to her it looks like being purified, being  _cleansed,_ and for that she is thankful.

She hears movement behind her and darts a quick glance over her shoulder – mermaids rarely go near  _him,_ yet it wouldn't be the first time a young one has made this mistake – but it's only Peter, swimming towards her. She looks away again, just in time to feel his hand press at her waist. He stands, the water cascading off him in rivulets, and his chest is at her back before she can protest, his mouth at her ear. He drags his lower lip up the shell of it before speaking, an intimacy she couldn't help but miss this past year.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, "you're  _so_  beautiful, bird. I miss you. I miss you so much –"

"You might have thought of that before you put me in a cage." she tells him, but she's already leaning into his touch and her voice lacks bite.

It's something that she's said so often to him that the venom has seeped from its bones, worn-out and fading. She doesn't mind; soon  _he'll_ be the toy for her to play with.

Peter nips at her ear, slipping his arm round her waist to trace the line of her abdomen, then lower. She can feel the press of his cock against her thigh already, and it seems like the most natural thing in the world to tilt her hips back against him. He sighs, pushing his nose against her hair. His fingers brush against wiry curls, slipping inside to stroke at her cunt.

"You missed me, too," he laughs, almost in wonder, when his hand comes back sopping wet with her juices.

Wendy shivers, and when she tips her head back his lips find her neck like no time has passed at all. His mouth is soft, wet with chilly sea-water and yet it still burns, sending a deep, warm ache right to her core. "I missed your hands." she allows, staring up at the brightening sky.

He sinks his teeth into the junction of her neck and shoulder, causing her to cry out. "Just my hands?"

"Your mouth is better."

She feels his grin against her flesh. "I'll have that kiss, now." He spins her round to face him, tugging her close.

He presses his lips to hers forcefully, feverishly, and she returns the favour with a kind of fervour – a kind of desperation – that she hasn't felt in  _so long._ His fingers dig into the base of her spine, their hips colliding again and again as they both seek the friction they've been missing.

Wendy cups his face, brushing her thumbs over his cheekbones. She hisses into his mouth, nipping at his lower lip until the only red that taints it is  _hers,_ and hers alone. He tastes just as she remembers – rich and dark, with hints of salt from the ocean.

Peter breaks away, panting heavily. "Beach," he croaks, "go –"

He leans forward again, capturing her lips in a scorching kiss, and when she opens her eyes again they're tangled up in each other on the sandy stretch – her back against a rock, his arms on either side as he suckles at her chest, boxing her in – shadows slinking away from them.

She gives a slightly breathless laugh, clutching at his hair, thinking  _so that's what it's like to walk in the shadows._  It feels like nothing.

Her train of thought is broken when Peter sinks to his knees before her, lapping at her inner thigh. He smooths a palm up her calf, tugging her legs apart. He looks up at her, placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on her hip bone. "Tell me," he commands, but his voice is ragged, "tell me you want me."

She tilts her head at him. "I don't think so, Peter."

He nips her flesh, pulls back. "Tell me or I stop."

Wendy trills out another laugh, opening her legs wider. "We both know you're not in the mood for  _stopping,_ Peter, and we both know which one of us wants this more."

"Liar." When she says nothing, only smiles, he growls and persists. "You're  _lying._ "

She looks down to where he kneels, his mouth swollen and bruised, eyes accusing. "Maybe," she ventures, "but I want to hear  _you_ say it first."

"I -" he hesitates. "I want you," he continues after a moment, bolder, "obviously."

She crosses her legs.

"More - I want you  _more._ " he says, and it sounds deliciously like begging. "Wendy."

She raises an eyebrow, considering. She could stop this, now; go back to her cage, leave him hot and straining and wanting, as punishment. She could walk away - and while Peter is many, awful things, he has never forced her into fucking him. Her word is final, if she means it.

She regards him with pursed lips. He regards her with glazed eyes, reddened mouth. His hand rests on her knee, tightening and loosening in intervals. His breath washes over her flesh, and when it sends warmth rushing to her core, she gives in. No use the both of them being unsatisfied, really.

"Good." Wendy says firmly, and parts her thighs.

Peter - there really is no other word for the way he moves towards her - lunges, slamming his mouth to her cunt with renewed vigour. He gives her one, broad lick that makes her fall back on her elbows, gasping, craning up towards the sky. His nose presses to her clit as he sucks and nibbles and licks, his mouth hot and insistent. He's pressed so close to her; wedged between her legs, juices running down his chin.

She lets out a ragged cry as he pushes a finger inside, drawing his tongue up to her sweet-spot. He suckles on it and her hips buck, one leg slipping over his shoulder to scrabble her foot at his back. Pleasure tingles over her flesh; a warm, heady thing. She reaches down and fists a hand in his hair, groaning as electricity thrums in her abdomen.

"Missed me?" he murmurs against her.

As way of answer, she cants her hips up, effectively silencing him. He pumps his finger inside her steadily, moving back a little to survey her. What he sees must please him; a wicked grin steals over his lips as he teases her with the tip of his tongue. She whines, chest heaving. Peter straightens, suddenly, looming over her once more.

She goes to growl at him, but he quiets her with a too-soft kiss. "Calm down," he whispers, before pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth.

He slides into her with a muffled groan. Pressing his forehead to hers, he dots kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her brow. Shifts his hips; Wendy hisses. He smiles. "Missed me?" he asks again, and she's nodding before she can help it.

"Yes -" she gasps, "yes - just,  _please_  -"

Peter draws out to the tip, then slams back into her with enough force to jolt her up the rock. It scrapes against her flesh, but she's so starved for sensation that she doesn't care, wants more,  _needs_ more. "What do you want me to do, bird?"

She stares up at him, violently reminded of another man - hair darker, eyes kinder - asking a similar question. She pushes the memory away, craning up to kiss Peter. He responds hungrily; licking into her mouth as if he's dying of thirst, but his hips stay infuriatingly still. She's wonderfully, deliciously full - but she needs movement. A growl ripples in the base of her throat. She knows what she has to say, but that doesn't mean she's happy about it.

Wendy smooths her hands over his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle shift underneath her fingertips. She swipes her tongue across his bottom lip, tugs it gently between her teeth. His hands tighten on her breasts, toying with her nipples, and it's with a quiet whimper that she breaks their kiss.

"Make me yours," she tells him, and he laughs.

Peter moves again with a sharp, sudden movement that sends pleasure so pure that she's certain she'll explode. She exhales with a cry; rocking her hips in response. Soon, they find their old rhythm - her fingernails gouging lines in the smooth planes of his back, his teeth sinking into her neck. He takes her with her legs wrapped round his waist, fast and unrelenting, no sound but their moans and flesh hitting flesh.

She arches her back, her fingers finding their way into his hair. He kisses her again, and again, slamming his mouth over hers gracelessly. She whispers half-things against his lips, scraps of words, of promises, of pleas. They mean nothing - spilling out into the air between them, quickening the pace of his thrusts - but it feels like letting go, relinquishing control, to not monitor her words as carefully as she would stitch a wound. Wendy closes her eyes, tips her head back.

The time for control - for meticulous phrases, for manipulation - is done. For now. Right here, in this moment, she must make it seem as if he has taken down the barriers of her heart.

"Peter," she cries, "please -  _please_  -"

With one final roll of his hips, a biting kiss to her throat, he does as he is told.

Wendy comes apart with a shattering keen, her spine locking straight and fingers scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders. She tears skin; blood wells up under her nails as white spots burst behind her eyelids. Sensation explodes within her, something tight snapping and sending the subsequent reverberations to her very toes - it's been  _so_ long, and it feels like she's being undone.

He follows with a hoarse cry. He shudders against her, holding her closer than seems possible. She opens her eyes, staring up at the clear sky while he whispers  _I love you I love you I love you_ in the crook of her neck.

Sunrise streaks across the Neverland horizon; pinks and oranges streaking over unsullied blue.

 

* * *

 

 

Wendy raises her head and smiles.

They return to camp hours later, but sunrise has not ended.

The Lost Boys pause in their duties, their eyes flicking from Peter's hold on her hand to her unforgiving expression.

"Wendy?" Tootles steps forward. He looks no different, of course. Hope lingers around the corners of his mouth; she wants to extinguish it.

She gives him a brittle smile, her eyes cold and hard. "Boys," she greets. She sees Slightly and Rufio standing together over firewood. They look wary.

_Good,_ she thinks. They should be. She finds no sympathy in her heart, not for them. They will be excellent subjects when Neverland is hers, but they will not be favoured. Wendy lifts her chin.

She gives the camp another sweep of her gaze; there are a few new boys, as she expected, but one in particular catches her eye. He stares right back at her boldly, fidgeting with the sleeve of his odd coat, and smiles.

Her breath catches in her throat. It's  _his_ smile, Bae's smile, right down to the goodness and purity radiating from his eyes - she looks harder, and more of his features become apparent in the soft roundness of this boy's face. He has Bae's dimples, his chin, his  _hair -_

"Who -?" Wendy asks, but Peter clears his throat, loudly.

"Come on." he says, and brusquely tugs her along.

The boys all watch her go, but she can feel  _his_ eyes burning into the back of her nightgown.

 

* * *

 

 

A tired-looking man, his clothes worn and frayed as his nerves, awakes with a gasp in the forest of Neverland. He looks to the sky, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face.

After a beat, he knows where he is.

" _Shit_."

 


End file.
